This is the land the sunset washes,

At last, the lamps upon thy sideThe rest of Life to see!Past Midnight! Past the Morning Star!Past Sunrise!Ah, What leagues there wereBetween our feet, and Day!

And Violets are done—When Bumblebees in solemn flightHave passed beyond the Sun—The hand that paused to gatherUpon this Summer’s dayWill idle lie—in Auburn—Then take my flowers—pray!

Upon a festal day,‘Twill be because beyond the RoseI have been called away—If I should cease to take the namesMy buds commemorate—‘Twill be because Death’s fingerClaps my murmuring lip!

Are full of Morning Glory—And at my finger’s end—The Carmine—tingles warm—And if I hold a GlassAcross my Mouth—it blurs it—Physician’s—proof of Breath—I am alive—becauseI am not in a Room—The Parlor—Commonly—it is—So Visitors may come—And lean—and view it sidewise—And add ‘How cold—it grew’—And ‘Was it conscious—when it steppedIn Immortality? ‘I am alive—becauseI do not own a…

The Peace cannot deface—Then Wherefore be the Tooth?To vitalize the Grace—The Heaven hath a Hell—Itself to signalize—And every sign before the PlaceIs Gilt with Sacrifice—

It tried—to be a Rose—And failed—and all the Summer laughed—But just before the SnowsThere rose a Purple Creature—That ravished all the Hill—And Summer hid her Forehead—And Mockery—was still—The Frosts were her condition—The Tyrian would not comeUntil the North—invoke it—Creator—Shall I—bloom?